


cut loose like an animal

by Trojie



Series: left me for dead [1]
Category: RocknRolla (2008), Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Season/Series 08, Angst and Porn, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, First Time Bottoming, Hopeful Ending, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Suicidal Thoughts, hurt Handsome Bob, post-RocknRolla
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-30
Updated: 2014-12-30
Packaged: 2018-03-04 10:11:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3063983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trojie/pseuds/Trojie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two men going nowhere fast together. (a.k.a. Sam didn't hit that dog, and Bob never managed to talk One Two into more than that slow dance, and they run into each other literally on a backroad somewhere in America).</p>
            </blockquote>





	cut loose like an animal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nu_breed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nu_breed/gifts).



> For nu_breed, the pizza man to my unicorn. Title from [Ten Tonne Skeleton by Royal Blood](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eD7NZTQ3QxY).

Sam's been driving the Impala in a straight line for a week, since he got her mostly roadworthy again, and he can hear Dean's stupid mixtape starting to stretch but he can't make himself turn it off. Golden Earring yowl about it being half past four and it isn't, it's three oh seven, but he is shifting gear. 

He puts out his hand, hates that it's shaking, and he's about to hit the eject button, he really is, when there's a godalmighty thud under his right front wheel and the car lurches crazily across what passes for a centre line on this shitty road.

He wrenches his brother's baby back under control on instinct, just before a truck thunders around the corner which woulda taken him out and saved him some effort down the line, but he doesn't waste time mourning what could have been. He looks back for whatever it was he hit, instead.

Something big and pale is crawling on the roadside. Shit. Did Sam just hit a _dog?_

***

Bob doesn't even fuckin' _know_ what that last lot was cut with, but it musta been somethin' cos his head is spinning. Like, sick round and round, and he's not exactly sure where he is but then that's nothing new. This fucking godforsaken country, he got off a plane and he's been lost for months, he thinks. He's just goin' bump to bump and line to line, y'know? Fuck else has he got to do? Goin' nowhere fast, that's Bob. 

He's coming down in cold sweats, takin' a walk cos fresh air still tastes better than the smoke in last night's dive bar, shivering, streets giving way to like, fields, woods or some shit, and then there's a road, and Bob starts to follow it. Why not, right? He's not exactly seeing straight or thinking straight, but how hard can a road be?

Turns out really hard, when your face is smacked into it.

***

It's not a dog. It's a person. Sam has just fucking run over a fucking person, a guy, maybe Sam's age, maybe a little younger. He's still moving, bleeding but moving. Sam can't leave him here, so he sort of manages to get his arms around the guy and hauls him to the Impala, to the front passenger's seat, and pushes him in. He sprawls, out of it in the 'I've got a potentially serious headwound' way. 

Sam goes to the trunk and ferrets out the med kit. This, at least, he can do on autopilot, like driving. Find the wound. Clean. Stitch. Dress. He doesn't have to think about it. He doesn't have to think at all.

The guy is too thin for the frame he's got - like he used to be built and it's melted off him. Sam gets his shirt off and tries to feel for internal bleeding, not sure he's doing it right. He peels back the guy's lip and sees that his gums are good and pink, which Sam vaguely remembers as being a good sign, and his pupils dilate and contract together, although they do it slow enough to keep Sam suspicious. His left shoulder is a red and rapidly-blackening mess of bruises, and his left wrist is swelling. There's one cut in his scalp, Sam finds, ruffling through hair growing out of a recent buzzcut, bleeding like a stuck pig but not deep enough to stitch. Sam clamps a clean cloth that used to be a t-shirt to it and tries to get the guy to hold it there. He … kind of manages, but how much pressure he's managing to put on it Sam doesn't know. 

But overall he's not bad hurt. Sam musta bowled him only by glancing blow, or something - it's like he bounced when he went down. 

'I should get you to a hospital,' Sam mutters, because he's not a doctor and 'got hit by a car' is something he can actually explain to medical professionals, for once. This guy deserves better than a half-assed patch job. 

But before he can button up that shirt again and get into the driver's seat, his wrist gets grabbed. 'Nuh-uh,' slurs the guy.

'At least lemme give you a painkiller,' Sam says, reaching for the kit again, thinking his passenger here's too out of it from his injuries to understand what Sam's saying. The grip on his wrist tightens. 

'Nah. Don't want me t' OD, d'you?' It's slow and heavily accented, to Sam's ears, but it's clear. 

Sam looks again at the guy in his front seat, the way his ribs show shadows around his sternum, the bags under his eyes, the expression that says, _oh yeah, you get me._ Sam remembers that the people who survive drunken car crashes are the drunk ones. Because they bounce. Remembers how slow those pupils were to change. 

This guy is wasted. 

'Shit.'

Sam's new friend grins lazily. ''Bout the size of it. Where we headed, then?'

***

In Bob's experience when you hit someone, afterwards, you run. 

'Why are you bein' so fuckin' nice to me?' Bob asks, lolling his head over to look at the Good Samaritan who knocked him down, picked him up, patched him up. 'No-one ever tell you not to pick up a junkie? We're dangerous.'

'Tell me something I don't know,' says the idiot. 'I'm Sam. You got a name?'

'Bob. Call me Bob, sweetheart.'

'You looking to get somewhere specific?' Sam asks. He's holdin' the steering wheel pretty fuckin' tight, Bob notices. No maps in here, too, and this seat feels like someone not-Bob has spent a lot of time sitting here. 

'Nah,' says Bob. 'You?'

Sam throws him a slant-wise look, shrugs. 'Kind of on a road trip,' he says. Which is not a fucking answer. That's okay. Looks like Bob's got a few more miles to find out in. Sam tucks a lock of hair behind his ear and turns his attention back to the road, and Bob thinks, _least I'm travelling with a view._ Sam's pretty. Bob likes 'em pretty.

A few miles down the road, though, and Bob's starting to get jittery and stupid. The roof of his mouth itches, he keeps trying to soothe it or scratch it somehow with his tongue, and his legs won't stop jumping. He's got a mighty fuckin' need and no way to scratch it and nothing to distract him. 

Like he's doing it on autopilot, Sam stretches out his hand and presses down on Bob's knee. The touch is gentle and soft and it goes straight to Bob's cock like it has a direct fuckin' line. Well. That's a distraction Bob can work with. He leans in. Sam doesn't move. Bob leans closer, leans down. 

'S'very kind, y'know,' Bob murmurs, licking his lips. 'Pickin' up a stranger. Feel like I should repay the favour.'

Sam's driving like he's on another planet, something far away and dead in his expression. Bob starts to undo the fly of Sam's jeans. If this doesn't bring him back to the land of the living, Bob'll hand back his man card.

He prob'ly shouldn't. He's coming down and he's starting to get the ache, the itch - but he's still buzzing enough to be reckless and hungry. Fuck it, he wants. He's gonna have.

Realisation takes about two seconds. Sam swears the air blue but it's too late, Bob's got him by his beautiful hipbones and is savouring the feel of a dick hardening over his tongue. 

If Bob's any judge, Sam hasn't got his end away in donkey's years. He's trying so hard to keep still. Such a gentleman. But his hips jerk and he's moaning in his throat, choked like he's worried someone's gonna hear. And his arms are flexing, like he wants to grab. Bob wouldn't be averse to a bit of caveman manhandling, so he takes Sam's hand where it's hovering over the gear shift, and pulls it to his scalp. Then he eases back, starts just tonguing at Sam's slit, teasing, until Sam's fingers clench and he _pushes._

That's it, that's the boy, and fuckin' hell but he's a strong fucker. Bob's mouth waters and he takes Sam deep.

The sour taste makes the blazing itch in his veins settle, just a little. 

There's a lurching sensation, somewhere far away but Bob has better things to think about, and he realises that Sam's foot is flat to the floor at about the same time he thinks, _hmmm, a big boy, huh?_ because Sam's cock is starting to strain the hinges of his jaw, full and heavy and fucking mouthwatering. 

Bob slides back off with a curl of his tongue around the head of Sam's dick as Sam shifts up again, cylinders roaring like they wanna come through the bonnet. 'You trynna get us killed?' he asks lazily, kissing where he was sucking, just tiny chaste pecks like the kind he'd press to Sam's cheek, lips pursed against the sticky skin of Sam's cock. 

Sam groans roughly, swears 'Jesus fucking _Christ_ -' as the engine redline roars in time with the heartbeat Bob can feel pulsing in his thigh.

'Just Bob, babe. Just Bob,' says Bob, rolling his shoulders and grinning. 'Now shhh, and let a man work.' And he sinks back down with a satisfied sigh. 

Sam spreads his legs wide and Bob slides on in, curling over one big solid thigh to get his mouth and hands in right where he wants them, in on the action. And speaking of hands, Sam's are gettin' the idea - he's curled his fingers tight in Bob's short hair and is pushing softly in time with how Bob's running his tongue up and down Sam's cock. It's slow. Bob likes doin' this slow, weirdly, cos he likes doin' everything else fuckin' fast if he can - he's a hundred mile an hour man most of the time, but some things you gotta savour, and this is one of them. 

A lorry's horn blares out of nowhere, and the car swerves violently, like they've been drifting. But Bob dun't have the time to protest because Sam comes with a gasp, a squeal of tyres, and a tight clench of his fingers that sends a little zing of pain down Bob's spine to his dick, rubbing all over the car seat inside his jeans. That, plus the taste and the way that Sam holds himself back, fuck, like he's trying to weld his arse to the seat rather than fuck Bob's mouth, that beautiful little consideration that says things to Bob about what Sam would be like naked under him, that's it. Imagination's enough to get Bob off sometimes, with enough of the right stuff along with it, like the taste of another man's come and a touch of friction. 

Bob pulls off when they're both done twitching, and he laughs at Sam's pole-axed face. 'Shut that pretty mouth before I get ideas,' he says. 'Wanna switch places and go again?'

'No thanks, I don't have a death-wish,' says Sam hoarsely.

He looks like he believes that, but this car smells fuckin' lived in and Sam's face even after he's just come his brains out looks like he's got a ten ton weight inside him. Bob kisses him just so he doesn't have to look, and Sam makes a rumbling noise in his chest, tasting himself in Bob's mouth. 

One last lick, and Bob reaches down to tuck Sam away and zip up his jeans again. They're still driving, too fast for Bob's liking given the road and the lights and the race of Sam's pulse. 

They're drifting to the left again. Even Bob only notices when another lorry flashes his lights and honks. Sam swears and wrenches the car back on the straight and narrow in time. Only just.

Bob laughs. 'Coulda fooled me, sweetheart.'

***

Sam assumes that he paid for this motel room, mostly because Bob looks like he spends all his money on blow. Credit card fraud has been a backbone of Sam's life so long, probably makes sense he can do that on autopilot too, like driving and patching up bleeding wounds. He really, really wants to sleep. More than that, he wants to not wake up again. And more than that, more than anything else, he doesn't want to be on his own.

Bob's staring out at the carpark through the open window. He looks bigger in the dark, when the shadows hide the hollows between his bones. 

Sam dredges words up. 'Have you eaten?'

'Not hungry, sweetheart.' Bob talks to Sam like he's doing him a favour. He talks like words are cheap. His posture's tight though, and he's next to the door like he doesn't plan on sitting down, a flight risk if Sam ever saw one. But Sam's gorge rises at the idea of being alone again. He's up against Bob, caging him against the wall, before he knows he's moving, and he leans down and buries his face in the curve of Bob's neck.

Bob's too short, and he's the wrong smell, wrong ... feel, under Sam's hands. He's denim and polyester, too much bodywash, skin stretched over bones, not leather and cheap bourbon and hard muscle. But it's touch, it's … it's better than nothing. Maybe for both of them. And Sam wouldn't've had the guts to do this, wouldn't have ever made a move like this, except Bob already made it clear this is the sort of transaction he's okay with. So Sam breathes 'please,' into the fine skin of Bob's throat. Something in him tells him Bob's just as much of a hustler as Sam was raised to be, that he can read Sam like a book, that he doesn't need the words Sam doesn't have anyway.

'Need something, babe?' Bob asks equally softly. 'Tell Bob. I'll see you right.' He's trembling, Sam realises, and sweating too, but he's bringing a hand up to pet Sam's hair like it's Sam that needs soothing.

Sam isn't dumb enough to think he's what Bob's jonesing for.

'You,' he says wretchedly. 'Need you to stay.'

'What for? Somethin' interesting on telly, is there?' Bob's fingers are still carding through Sam's hair. 'Look, I'm grateful for the lift, yeah. M'happy to do you another solid, but then I got places to be.'

'You mean you've got shit to buy,' Sam mutters against Bob's chest. 'You know a dealer in this town?'

'You're assumin' I need one, sweetheart. But I ran into a good bloke a few towns back, happy to give a discount to a boy from the old homestead who's down on his luck. I'm sorted, at least for a little while.' He pushes Sam backwards until they hit the bed, and then he pushes Sam down. Sam goes. Like the questions, it's easy, and Bob's voice is soft when he says, 'You know I can't stay, not like you want.'

'You don't need to go, though,' Sam offers, staring at his knuckles in his lap. 'I mean. I don't care. If you need to smoke or snort or, or shoot up, or whatever.' Because Sam really doesn't give a shit. Because Sam used to suck his substance of choice out of ex-human jugular veins, so who is he to quibble the details of someone else's habit?

'Y'don't want me messing up the decor. Trust me. I'm a dirty bastard.'

'Do I look like I give a crap? Stay.' Reckless, seized with a sudden hunger, he lays back on his elbows, spreads his legs wide around Bob's knees. 'Want you to fuck me. Don't care what you do after.'

So close - they came so close to a head-on with that truck, and for a split second with his brains being sucked out his dick Sam was free, waiting for the crunch and the white light. Bob's knuckles are scarred, fighter's hands, hanging by his sides. Sam wonders dreamily if he could get Bob to spar with him. 

Bob leans over him and pulls Sam's face up, to look at him. This close, Sam can see the bloodshot thread in Bob's eyes, watch as they widen. 'Okay,' Bob says, like it's easy. 'Tell me. You ever been fucked before, Sam?'

No. Not for lack of interest, but, no. 'Does it matter?'

Bob gives him a dry, knowing look. 'But you wanna?'

'Yes.' Sam clenches his jaw. Bob looks like he's laughing on the inside.

'Yeah, sure you do. Just like you wanted to get mullered by that lorry out on the highway, yeah?' 

'I'm not a goddamn virgin,' Sam says defensively. 'This isn't exactly my first rodeo.' Except his guts are knotted and his blood is boiling, and he's more than half-hard already just over the thought. 

'I bet,' says Bob coolly, looking him up and down. 'But I'd still have to ... what's the thing? Break you in. That's it. '

Sam shivers. Bob smiles. There's a twitch at the edge of his mouth, and his hands aren't exactly steady where they're locked in Sam's hair, but his eyes are clear and they're locked on Sam's. 'But I reckon I could put in the time. So. Didja mean it, babe?' He grinds down a little in the cradle of Sam's hips. Sam gasps. 'Gonna let me do what I want?'

'I'm already a mess,' Sam groans, shoving his hands up under Bob's shirt. 'C'mon. Just. Anything.'

Bob reaches behind himself and hauls his shirt off over his head. 'Oh, sweetheart. You're gonna regret saying that.'

But the way he presses himself against Sam, the way it makes Sam's blood heat and head spin, makes Sam think he's really not. Sam can fit his fingers between Bob's ribs, practically. He clings, while Bob unbuttons shirt after shirt and kisses down his chest. His mouth is wet, sloppy, and so soft when he closes it around Sam's nipple that Sam relaxes, until Bob bites. It's light and teasing but it's sharp, and Sam's legs fall even further open. 

'Oh, you like a bit of rough stuff, do you?' Bob asks in a voice that's got teeth of its own. 'How about you roll over, hmm?'

The deep red knot in Sam's gut tightens even further, antsy as fuck at the idea of turning his back on even this kind of danger - but he goes, onto his belly, clenching his fingers in the bedspread. 

'So tense,' Bob murmurs, pulling at the collars of Sam's unbuttoned shirts, getting them off, sliding his rough, disjointed hands down Sam's back. Then he slips them around and under to get at Sam's fly. 'Whatever do you think of me, sweetheart? C'mon, gimme some room.'

Sam lifts up on his knees, and lets Bob unbutton him and drag down jeans and underwear at the same time. There's a low breath out behind him, and a palm dragging down his spine, over the curve of his ass. 'Shit, babe. Look at you. I wanna fuckin' eat you alive.'

Fingers are already toying with Sam's ass, digging deep, pulling his thighs apart with bitten nails dug into the soft inner skin, and Sam melts into it, like he was trained, pain is the anchor, pain is reality, pain is his _friend_ , and says, 'Do it,' in a voice that's gone shaky already. 'Please, fuck, do it hard, need it -'

Bob yanks at him then, scoring what feels like lines along Sam's quads, dragging his legs wide, making space. He leans down til he's blanketing Sam's body. 'D'you really?' Bob asks. 'Want it hard? Are you sure? Cos I think I got a handle on _why_ you want this, and if I let you have your head, sweetheart, I'm worried you're gonna get yourself hurt. So how about you shh, and let me drive?'

Sam's eyes snap shut. Bob chuckles, rumbling in his thin chest against Sam's back. 'Good boy.'

The bedsheet is cheap, the elastic around the edges must be giving way because Sam's grip on it is pulling it free from the mattress and the coarse grain of it is burning his skin where he's rubbing against it.

'You got lube?' Bob asks, mutters to himself even though he's addressing it to Sam. Sam's still pretty sure he's under the 'shh' injunction, so he doesn't say a word. 'Course you do, kinky boy like you, never been fucked my arse, bet you stick your fuckin' fingers up your fuckin' arse every time you get your hand near your cock -'

It's not true, none of it's true, actually - Sam barely jacks off any more, hasn't in a year; too stressed, too little privacy, too little hot water in the shitholes they were squatting in. But there _is_ lube in the duffel bag he dragged in from the back of the Impala, picked up god knows where, god knows when, same way with the dog-eared copy of _Animal Farm_ and the B cup bra. Relics. 

'Huh,' says Bob, rustling in the bag. Sam's still face down in the pillow, A/C prickling on his bare skin. 'Lookin' at the vintage of this, maybe I'm being a little overoptimistic.' He comes back to the bed, mattress dipping under his weight, and then he's back between Sam's thighs, sheltering him from the draught. 'Tell me the truth, sweetheart. You ever had _anythin'_ in here?' His fingers gently slide down between the cheeks of Sam's ass. 'Yes or no?'

'No,' Sam says. 

'Fuck,' growls Bob. 'You're gonna fuckin' do me in.' He drops a kiss on the lowest dip of Sam's spine, trails his lips back, keeps mouthing at Sam's skin, further and further back, down and around, and his fingers find Sam's hole. They're slick and warm and startling. Sam can't help jerking under Bob's hands. 

But Bob doesn't let up, not for Sam moving, or Sam making noises, or Sam pounding the skeevy mattress with his fist and swearing 'Jesus fucking shit christ fuck _fuck_ will you just -' when his asshole is stuffed full of fingers and the lube is running down his inner thighs to pool where is dick is rutting in the sheets and Bob's just brushed against something that makes Sam clench his eyes shut so hard he sees firework colours behind his eyelids. 

Bob just presses his forearm over the hollow of Sam's arching spine and presses down to keep him still. Sam thrashes and gets nails dug in for his trouble, and likes it. 'Fighty bastard, aren't you,' Bob says, with a laugh in the undercurrent of it. 'Guess you were right and this ain't your first rodeo. Heck of a big fuckin' pony, though,' he adds, and smacks Sam's ass. 

Sam literally bucks, and Bob really does laugh then, 'You got four fingers in you, cowboy. Feel good? You feel fuckin' amazing from here, I'm tellling you.'

It aches, being stretched like this - aches like a day-old punch. It stings too, and that's what makes Sam push into it harder. Bob's right, he does like it rough. He always has. He fights to get his knees under himself so that he can get more of the way his nerves light up so bright. Bob keeps him held hard down, but does work him harder - he can feel the edge of Bob's palm hard when he drives his fingers in. It's all Sam can do not to bite a hole in the pillow, desperate for _more_. 

'Reckon you're ready, yeah?' Bob asks, and God, his voice sounds like a month in the desert. There's the crinkling sound of foil being torn open, and one more little bit of Sam's disappointed and relieved all at once for a split second before Bob's back, pulling Sam's hips up and wedging his fingers back into that dark new space, so that he can put his dick in Sam and shove him across one more line. 

It's funny, Sam thinks, belly puddling in wet sheets, knees raw with friction burns. He's been possessed by Satan, but he's never been fucked before now. 

It's not funny at all. 

'C'mon,' Bob's muttering, smoothing his hands over Sam's sweaty back, trying to calm him down Sam realises, because he's shaking, clenching. 'D'you want me to stop, babe?' He's already pulling out, one hand behind Sam's ass holding onto the edge of the condom. 

'No,' Sam pants. 'No, God, please. I just - I'm fine, I swear, I want this.' He pushes back, trying to get Bob to keep going, rears up onto his haunches and grabs behind him blindly for Bob. _'Fuck me.'_

'Jesus,' Bob hisses, grappling with Sam and forcing him back to hands and knees. 'Okay, sweetheart, I got you.' He draws back with his hips, pushes in a tiny bit, jinks back - Sam knows what he's doing, trying to get Sam used to it, and Sam's grateful, because one dick feels a hell of a lot more serious than four fingers, somehow. It's an insistent rhythm, and it's careful but it isn't soft, and Sam's weak right shoulder gives out before Bob's bottomed out, planting him face down, ass-up in the mattress again. He moans, thinking what the fuck does he look like, getting ploughed like this.

Bob straightens up behind him, grabs both of his hips tight. 'Fuckin' work of art you are,' he tells Sam, and shoves the last however much of himself in, and Jesus. There's that place again, that raw space inside him that makes his brain go numb and taste colours like the Fourth of July. Bob rasps something that sounds like triumph, and rabbits his hips against Sam's thighs, thudding like a jackhammer. 

Sam's sobbing, strung out and sore and seeing fucking God all at once. 

'Wanna see your face,' Bob's saying, growling it, fingernails scoring over Sam's hips and ribs and abs, like he's trying to claw his way into Sam's body. 'Need to see you come, need to see you fuckin' break for me, God, sweet Jesus fuckin' shit, babe, you're a fuckin' animal.' 

Sam flexes until he can get his elbows under him, twist his face to the side. Makes it easier to breathe, cheek pillowed like he's sleeping, and he catches sight of Bob's expression, something hauntingly familiar in that soft mouth set in a hard line, lit by motel lights through shitty curtains and panting with sex and exertion and - Dean never touched him, they never - but Sam looked, listened, wanted …he knew he was dirty long before he found out about the demon blood. 

'Jesus fuckin' Christ, you are so fuckin' beautiful,' Bob breathes.

Sam shuts his eyes. Can't. No. But it's too late, the memories tangle up. He loses it in the rough, ripped sheets.

Bob groans. 'I didn't even _touch you,'_ he says, strained, shoving in, in, in. 'Shit, you're so tight, bloody virgin arse, this is embarrassing -' and then he's pumping into Sam's ass, a hot thick throb that makes Sam shiver, afterburning, pulling out before Sam's ready to lose the feeling of being full.

'Stay still,' Bob warns from somewhere away to the left and up. Sam's woozy, sex-high, warm and sore, and he could sleep now, he really could. He's not exactly in any shape to lift so much as a finger.

Something gets tapped onto Sam's back, tap-tap-tap along the dip of his spine, then there's scraping, leaving a tingle that starts to wake Sam up to exactly what's happening. 

He starts to shift, but Bob puts a hand on his shoulder. 

'Y'said anything, babe,' he says. 'I gave you what you wanted, din't I?' 

Bob's fingers are clenching a little too hard in the meat over Sam's shoulderblade. When Sam tilts his head to look over, he can see the way Bob's trembling. 

'Go for it,' Sam says, and Bob gives him a lightning sketch of a smile before straddling his hips. Sam doesn't feel anything but a flash-quick draught over his hot skin, before Bob's kissing him, each vertebra, it feels like, until he's pulling Sam's face around and licking into his mouth, dizzier and more frantic than he was before. Sam wriggles off his belly and onto his back, pulling Bob down to meet him, trying to gentle the kiss as much as he can. 

Eventually, Bob slows his roll, slinks down onto the bed next to Sam, although his pupils are too pin-prick small for the light, and Sam can feel his blood hammering through his pulse points. 

'Now will you stay?' he asks, when he's got Bob settled, trying to pretend the idea of getting a 'no' doesn't scare him. 

Bob looks up at him almost trustingly. 'Yeah. Reckon.'

Sam knows it's a lie.

***

Bob's buzzed, sex and drugs the best kind of cocktail, and there's a question he's wanted to ask all a-fuckin'-long, since the road, since the worn space on that Yank tank's front seat let him sink into it, makin' him think he was sharing shotgun with a ghost.

'So, who was he?'

Sam stills. Deer in the headlights. 'Who was who?'

'Guy who fucked you over this bad.' Bob lolls his head, feeling starry-eyed and warm, Sam's belly skin under his cheek tight like a drum, echoing his words through. 'Was a guy, right? Or, guess it coulda been a girl. Fuckin' pretty and fuckin' nuts is my guess. Big, big eyes, bossy ... Sound like your type huh? Were they wild in bed, babe? Whips and chains and shit?'

Sam's silence is as long as his body but rough like the road outside. He's picking his exit. Bob knows the signs. He rubs the soft smooth skin of Sam's hip and leg over and over, admiring the grain of it.

'It was my brother,' Sam says after a little while. He's stroking Bob's head, it feels fucking amazing. 'I mean. I lost my brother, that's what - what fucked me up. Not the rest of it.'

The pulse in this thigh skips. Liar's sign. Bob tucks that one away.

***

It's dark, before dawn, and no-one is in the other bed. Sam blinks, trying to clear his head. He shifts, and winces when his thighs complain - and then there's a snarl outside the window, a cut-off yell -

Sam's heart clenches. The rest of him is already hauling on his jeans, checking the chamber on his Taurus, grabbing for Ruby's knife, is out in the parking lot within thirty seconds. Nothing is ever coincidence. 

'Hey,' he bellows, fires a shot over the head of whatever it is that has Bob on his back on the asphalt. It looks up, muzzle outlined against the moody full-moon light, and Sam's just glad he checked the calendar, loaded up with silver this morning, because it means he can get one in straight to the heart before the werewolf, or Bob, makes any stupid moves. 

Bob's out from under the corpse before Sam can get there to haul it off him. 'What the fuck,' he demands, kicking the thing as it starts to turn back to its human form. With a certain amount of sad lack of surprise, Sam recognises the motel clerk. 'What the fuckin' fuck,' Bob says, rounding on Sam. 'He jumped me out of nowhere. I didn't even hear him comin'.'

'You wouldn't,' Sam says, shrugging, tucking his gun back in his waistband. 

'He didn't - I swear, he didn't even look human,' Bob mutters. 'Do we need to get outta here before the pigs turn up?' he adds. 'That bloody land yacht of yours is a stupid choice for a getaway car, but I suppose beggars can't be choosers and all that. Guessin' it can probably shift if it has to, right? You got the fuckin' keys on you?' And then his eyes turn up in their sockets.

Sam grabs Bob before he falls, and realises the wolf had already taken most of a pound of flesh. Bob's t-shirt is black with blood, rent open in a rough four-split gash. 

Old habits gave him the silver bullet. And it's old habits that wrench open Bob's shirt, fold a compress, put his bleeding body in the Impala's front seat. 

Sam flips Dean's mixtape over, ten miles out of town, blacktop stretching hopefully far enough away to delay law enforcement picking up their trail for a day or so. He just needs another no-tell motel. 

The tape wails, tells him if it keeps on raining the levee's gonna break.

He wonders why he was stupid enough to think he could be free of this. But, well, he'd run himself under a truck but he's not the only person in this car tonight, and Bob might think he's a mess but he isn't ruined yet, and Sam's fucked if he'll let him die.

***

The stitches hurt, s'true, but the needle goes through Bob's skin a fuckload easier than the words come out of Sam about why Bob's bein' sewn up in the first place. 

'So,' Sam says. He turns away and starts to clean up the bloody rags and tag-ends of sutures like he's ashamed, too scared to look Bob in the fuckin' eye. 'Now you know. If you wanna get outta here, I won't blame you. There's a bus station on the other side of town.'

Bugger _that._

'You've been doing this all your life?' Bob asks. 

Sam shrugs. 'Yeah. Kept trying to get away, but it never seemed to stick. Dean …' He swallows hard. 'Dean used to call it the family business.'

'Is this how your brother died?' Bob says quietly. Sam turns around. Bob looks up at him and shrugs, tryin' to keep it light. 'Seems like a logical question to ask, s'all.'

'He's not dead,' says Sam, and there's a glass-brittle edge to his voice. 'He's just ...' Sam trails off, like there's no way to finish that sentence. He sits heavily on the bed next to Bob. 'But. Yeah. Something got him, and I wasn't - I should have seen it coming and I didn't. And now.' Sam lets his open hands fall into his lap, a helpless gesture. 'I don't know what to do.'

Bob doesn't say anything. He doesn't have an answer to give. He knows he's probably on the border of passing out, from the amount of blood he's lost, the drugs in his system, the shock. He lets himself slump against Sam's shoulder, and for the first time in a long time, he resents bein' on the gear. If he hadn't been fuckin' wasted, he wouldn't've been out there, fucking around thinkin' about stealing a car just to get to the centre of whatever passes for a town out here, to see if he could score - he woulda been in bed, maybe even getting off again. He hasn't got his hands on enough of Sam yet, and he kinda feels like there's a time limit on this deal. 

'I was gonna drive off a frigging cliff,' Sam says softly. 'I was all ready to do it. Not take a bend, drift over a centre line somewhere, find a downed bridge. Whatever. It'd been in the back of my head for a week. And then I hit you.' 

'Fuckin' good thing you did,' Bob mutters. He punches Sam in the shoulder, weak and sloppy, but he means it. 'Don't let me catch you tryin' it again. Stupid fuckin' idiot.'

'We've got this room til tomorrow morning,' Sam says. 'Then I … I guess I should keep moving. Track down Kevin, for a start. I can drop you at the Greyhound station,' he starts, but Bob shakes his head.

'Y'not getting shot of me that easy, cowboy. Gonna need someone who can drive that car without grinding the valves through the bonnet, for a start. An' y'need someone to suck your cock on a more than once a year fucking basis. Give you somethin' to live for, yeah?'

Sam laughs. 'Are you sure?'

Bob stretches lazily, limp like a noodle along Sam's side. 'I been lookin' for a reason to clean up. Guess helpin' you find your brother's a pretty good one.'

**Author's Note:**

> Happy New Year everyone (well, almost). I hope you all wanted Sam Winchester getting ploughed into a mattress to herald 2015 ...


End file.
